The gaiety of what we now call Palm Sunday, full of joyful voices raised praising God for the deeds of power they had seen in the one they had come to know as Jesus – teacher, healer, prophet, sage, peace advocate, voice of radical inclusion and welcome, and so much more – the raucous gaiety of Palm Sunday soon turned to the silence of that Thursday night of betrayal in the garden, the silence of that Friday of abandonment and crucifixion on a hill outside the city walls, the silence of a Saturday spent in fearful isolation and mourning, the silence of that Sunday morning in a graveyard.

The disciples were silent. But all creation longs for salvation, and as Jesus foretold, if the disciples were to remain silent, the stones would shout out. This is their testimony.

Cobblestone.

A lowly cobblestone am I. A paving stone. A chunk of granite quarried so long ago that this is lost in memory even to me. For many hundreds of what you call years I and my vast, extended family of brothers and sisters have lain embedded in the roadways of a city named Jerusalem. Day after day I have been worn smooth by the passage of feet innumerable, by the plodding of donkey and horse, by the passage of ox cart and even the occasional chariot. I had seen it all – the silent scurrying of rats by night, the frenzied chase of a cut-purse by day, the occasional indignity of an overturned chamber pot, the all too-frequent spill of human blood consequent to a drunken brawl.

How I envied by sister! While I had been placed in the main roadway leaving from the eastern gate to the city, she enjoyed her situation in the magnificent avenue leading from the western-most gate. How often it seems that so much of life comes down to three main things: location, location, and location. And so each year the daily monotony of cobblestone existence would be broken up for her – not for me, why never me?

You see, this city had been conquered by the Romans, and their rule was always tenuous and fragile at best. This was particular true at the time of the festival of what they called “The Passover”, some sort of celebration of a time in the distant past, so I am told, when the people had been released from bondage to another overlord, to Egypt. It seemed to give the people all sorts of ideas about liberation from foreign oppressors – and next thing you know, there were riots, rebellions, all sorts of problems. So enter the good news for my sister – each year at this time the Roman Governor – at this time a fellow by the name of Pontius Pilate – would ride up to Jerusalem from his imperial capital at the seaside, a place known as Caesarea. He would enter the city by the gate to the west, and ride at the head of a huge parade, thousands of soldiers, displaying all the military might of Rome. The party line – they were there to “keep the peace.” Yet at heart it was all about intimidation, about reminding Jerusalem who was boss, about sending a message. The message got across – in sullen silence the populace watched, and remembered, and shrunk back within themselves.

But then came that one, special year. Oh my sister, she had that parade all right, the massive stallions, the iron-wheeled chariots, the smart-stepping legionnaires sweating under their plumed helmets, metal breast-plates, brass greaves, Pilate all decked out in purple. An impressive display of power.

But I had a parade of my own. Instead of coming on a war horse, the head of this parade came on a mere colt. Instead of wearing royal purple, he wore a simple home-spun tunic. Instead of a display of military might, this parade featured palm branches waved overhead, and peasants throwing their cloaks in front of the colt bearing the one they called “Jesus.” Instead of a few “Hail Caesar”s from the toadies from the palace and the Temple hierarchy, all here were shouting, “Praise God.” Instead of “Pax Romana”, there were shouts of “Peace in heaven.” Instead of sullen resignation and fear, there was joy, and hope, and a sense that something new and marvelous was about to be born. An impressive display of a different kind of power.

I remember that day as if it were yesterday. And as to my sister – well, for once I envied her not..

The Stone on the Hill.

Not much to look at, I know – raw, sharp-edged, not more than a few inches across, mostly grey with a splotch of dried rusty-color here and there; and not much of a location, a dusty, windswept hill well outside the mighty wall of the big city; and not much cachet in the name, I admit – Golgotha, or, in your language, the Skull. So maybe you’re thinking, “What does he know?”

Not much good, that’s the truth. Not much good. Long ago I lost track of all those poor soles (there’s a pun here if you look for it – sorry, I don’t get much humor out here) – long ago I lost track of all those poor souls who were forced at spear-point up this slope, their bare feet dripping blood all the way under the weight of the cross they bore.

Not that most people cared one way or another. Thieves, robbers, murderers, they were headed to the end that often is the result of lives misdirected, of choices ill-made. Bad living leading to a bad end.

But this one – this one was different. Maybe not in the way you think – no, he suffered just as all the rest did. Mostly broken by now – naked, his back in bloody ribbons, torn to shred by stone-tipped whips, sweat pouring off him, knees scraped from the constant falls up the craggy slope. I had my part to play as well, although I am ashamed to admit it – my exposed upper edge, razor-sharp, ripping through an unshod heel. His cry of pain still echoes within me. As do the cries from the cross, the cruel nails tearing through his skin.

He was different in this way – this man was innocent. He had done nothing wrong. But this did not stop them – indeed, this was the reason. They had a choice – God’s love and righteousness, peace and justice among each other, or sin, fear, and death, and they chose sin, fear and death.

They made their choice.

And he made his.

On the cross, he chose the path of suffering with that same humanity that did its worse to him, instead of opting to rise above that all-too-human condition. On that cross, he chose to forgive even this. On that cross, he gave everything – not just for his family and his friends, but for the world. On that cross, he went all the way, out of love for the world.

He was different. And so even I, a lowly stone on a seemingly God-forsaken hill, will always be different, too.

The Stone at the Tomb.

I have fulfilled my duty, accomplished the task for which I was made, achieved my purpose.

I tell you this now because I cannot remain silent. I am compelled to speak. For I know what I do is right, and just, if only the bare minimum of what he deserved.

Yes, I realize that the hour is late, that it is some time after sunset on that day which you call Friday. And yet it is done, and I have done, and so I must speak, perhaps because no one else will.

You did all you possibly could to him. He came in peace; you dispatched him with despicable violence. He came to show you the kingdom of God; you made his ending an unbearable hell. He came to help you understand that abundant life is available to you all – for thirty miserable pieces of silver you were willing to betray him. He freely accepted each and every one of you, no matter your past, no matter your failings, no matter the pettiness of your concerns or the smallness of your focus; in the end, you all abandoned him. He spared nothing of himself for you, even, an innocent man, suffering the agonies of death on a cross, foregoing the free pass he could have given himself.

All for you.

Hewn from a granite quarry, rounded to the appropriate diameter, placed at the door to a tomb carved into the hillside, I waited. I waited, and waited some more, and then today, just before sunset, at last it was my time. They brought his body, hastily wrapped in linen and yet not even anointed with the customary burial oils, and laid it in my tomb. And then it was my turn, and they rolled me over the entrance.

To seal him in, they said.

But this I say, and hear me well. You say, to seal him in.

I say, to seal you out. To keep you from him. To prevent you from doing anything more to him. To let him rest in peace.

I have, and I will have, the final say.

It is finished. -----------

(Actually, as the benediction that later followed made clear, the stone at the tomb was wrong – it was NOT finished.) Accordingly, here it is:

The way has begun. This time next week the world will be different, but the journey has to be traveled.

Go now and walk in the shadow of the promise With the God who has already walked And will walk again, The same path, In the name of love.

It s a violent and disturbing week; The heart will be torn out of the universe, But the promise is that it will beat again.

The stones shout out. A stone shouts out that it is finished, that death has sealed Christ away from us.

But the promise, thank God, is otherwise. Amen.